Devotion
by LW108
Summary: CB. When something unspeakable happens to Blair, Chuck realizes that there are no limits to what you will do for someone you love. Strong SB friendship, bits of DS. Rated for sex and language.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I'm sorry I've been out of reach for a while, but I forgot the password to my email for my other account and haven't had the motivation for years until I started watching GG again recently. You may know this story as Devotion and I'm going to be posting the chapters I already wrote as well as the other ones I've now written. This story takes place in the midst of the characters' sophomore year in college.**

 **Holiday party, Waldorf residence, age 20**

For Blair, the world got fuzzy somewhere between her second glass of Pinot Noir and a spontaneous shot of Patrón. She pushed through the crowd of people gathered in the ample quarters of her penthouse, her gaze sweeping the room pridefully at the mass of people mingling, cocktails and cell phones in hand as they enjoyed her annual Christmas soirée.

The apartment was decorated for the holiday to suit the traditional tastes of Eleanor Waldorf, wreaths hung on the doors and candles in the windows and a large, tastefully decorated Christmas tree flanking the corner of the living room.

There was even a small nativity scene on the mahogany table by the chaise, Eleanor's feeble attempt to cling to her Episcopalian upbringing. Blair didn't notice any of this, however, as she continued to wander the room, the silk hem of her Nanette Lepore dress rising with each step she took.

Making a beeline for the mini-bar, her fingers were in the process of wrapping around a brimming champagne flute when she noticed the very person she least wanted to see, her eyes automatically rolling toward the ceiling as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Chuck," she muttered, her voice laced with malice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He smiled as he leaned casually against the mini-bar, saluting her with his half empty glass of scotch. "Hateful as ever, I see." Pausing, he allowed himself a thorough inspection of her body, smirking at the blush that graced her cheeks when his eyes lingered along the plunging v-neck of her cocktail dress.

"Blushing, Blair? Surely all of those pricks at Yale haven't turned you into a prude."

She tilted her head to the side, brown eyes meeting brown as the corners of her lips turned upward.

"Not at all," she beamed, sarcasm clinging to her tongue.

"I still love sex. I just want to tie a chastity belt around myself when I'm with you."

Chuck cocked his brow, smirking as he downed the rest of his scotch in one long swallow.

"Afraid you won't be able to control yourself?" The grin immediately fell from her mouth.

She groaned, pouting as she resisted the urge to give his chest a shove. "Go away, Chuck!" But it was she who actually walked away, abandoning Chuck in favor of a strong gin martini and the preferred company of Penelope and Hazel.

From there, the night flew by in a whirlwind, a mixture of booze and debauchery and reminiscing of friendships past. The night stretched into early morning, and before she knew it, the clock read two-thirty AM and her name was being called from across the room.

"Blair!" She turned to find Cottie and Iz finishing off the last of their cocktails and slipping into their coats. "The party's moving to Socialista."

The old Blair, the high school Blair, might have felt annoyed that someone had moved her party without consulting her. But she was the new Blair, the Yale Blair, the grown-up Grace Kelly version of herself who merely scoffed quietly before nodding her head.

"Fine," she replied, giving a small shrug as she turned toward the staircase to grab her coat. "Wait for me. I'll be right back." She knew he was waiting for her before she even made it inside her bedroom.

She smelled him as she approached the threshold, his Clive Christian cologne wafting through the open entrance and causing wet heat to pool between her legs. "Chuck, didn't I tell you to leave?" she snapped, pushing herself through the doorway to find him sitting on the edge of her bed.

"What the hell are you doing in here? You're such a creep." He smirked, running his hand along the cotton threads of her duvet. "Just reminiscing," he replied, his eyes full of mischief as he took a long swallow of scotch.

"So many memories in this room." He paused, catching her eye.

"So many memories in emyou/em." She could feel her face flush, the lace of her La Perla's becoming drenched when he stepped away from the bed, his eyes locked on hers as he moved to close the distance between their bodies. She swallowed with difficulty, her breathing becoming irregular as she shook her head.

"No. I don't have time for this, Chuck." But he didn't listen, didn't even slow down in the slightest until his chest was crushed against hers, her nipples suddenly biting through the silk of her dress.

She felt his lips crash onto her mouth as she shook her head in weak protest, willing her body to resist his charm yet already feeling herself giving in as she gathered fistfuls of his argyle sweater between her palms.

"This doesn't mean anything" she whispered, barely containing a whimper as his hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress.

He groaned softly when his fingers were met with wetness beneath the lace of her panties, his eyes flashing with irritation as he allowed the empty scotch glass to fall to the ground.

"The fuck it doesn't," he growled, ignoring the tumbler as it shattered against the hardwood floor.

The crash was startling, causing her to jolt in his arms.

"Dorota's going to kill you for that," she hissed, two of his fingers disappearing inside her as she bit her lower lip. She moaned, sparing the glass-covered floor a glance as he added a third.

"No she won't," he whispered, watching her face as he pressed his thumb against her clit. "Dorota loves me." She could feel the pressure building in her body and she hated him for it.

Loved him for it. Throwing her head back, Blair attempted to control her panting. "No one loves you, Chuck," she countered, her tone full of anger as she felt her climax building. "You're repulsive." He didn't allow himself to feel the sting that her words caused, didn't acknowledge the burning that plagued his chest when their meaning sank in.

"Likewise, Waldorf," he shot back, letting his teeth close painfully over her clavicle while hoping that he sounded even the slightest bit convincing.

Her eyes fluttered shut as his ministrations continued, her pulse pounding beneath her skin as the silk of her dress wrinkled against his thighs.

"Let's get this over with, Bass. I have a party to get back to." He sneered at her command, jerking her angrily against the nearest wall with enough force to make her gasp.

"Don't rush me. I'm not one of your little cronies you can boss around." Irritation flared as she glared up at him through narrowed eyes. "Screw you, Chuck Bass." And he did, slowly at first with Blair pinned against her bedroom door, Chuck providing deep, rough thrusts as Blair braced her hands on his shoulders and wound her legs around his waist. They could hear the rumble of voices through the closed door behind Blair's shoulders, the loud partygoers doing nothing to quell their efforts.

"Harder" she hissed, "or I'll have to do this myself." He complied with a smirk, and when she came minutes later, it was with enough power to make her body shudder and her eyes roll into the back of her head. Chuck soon followed, his forehead falling against the soft skin where her neck and shoulder intersected.

Seconds passed in silence. Labored breaths echoed in the air as she slowly uncurled her legs from his waist, planting her feet back on the ground and smoothing the creases from her dress.

She pulled her tights over her knees, the maroon-colored fabric perfectly matched to the bow in her hair.

Beside her, Chuck watched from the corner of his eye, his lips pursed. "Thanks for the fuck, Princess."/ppShe rolled her eyes as she willed her knees to stop shaking, sulking as she grabbed her herringbone coat from the inside of her closet door. "God, I loathe you." And when she slammed the door behind her, he couldn't help but think that if he concentrated, her words sounded remarkably similar to the ones he really wanted to hear.

 **A/N: Hey guys! I do want to say that, although my summary suggests that there is much more of this story to tell (and there really), I had a remarkable amount of free time over the holiday weekend, which is how this initial part came to exist. I have every intention of continuing this, but whether I do depends largely on the amount of time I end up having over the next few weeks. I made sure that this story can stand on its own, so if I choose not to continue, my apologies, but take comfort in the fact that I didn't end this part with some absurd, dramatic cliffhanger as I had originally intended!All reviews are appreciated, of course.**


	2. Ice

**Socialista**

The room smelled like a mixture of liquor and sex. _And_ , Blair thought, somewhat like the fragrance counter at Bergdorf Goodman.

She was poised between Cottie and Hazel in the middle of a burgundy leather couch, her legs crossed at the ankles and a watermelon Bellini resting in her hand.

Socialista hadn't changed a bit in the seven months since she'd stepped through the door; same décor, same menu, same faces, more or less.

It was still one of her favorite places in the city, fourteen dollar drinks held between manicured fingers while beautiful patrons modeled the latest attire from Bendel's.

All in all, the perfect scene in the mind of Blair Waldorf.

Except, apparently, for tonight. She wasn't in the mood, not even being able to derive appreciation from the long, approving stare of the attractive Wall Streeter leaning against the bar.

She couldn't enjoy herself, could barely even breathe because of the distracting throb lingering between her legs.

She was losing her buzz, and losing her temper, and all she could think about was the mind-numbing orgasm she'd had, had an hour before.

That, and Chuck freaking Bass.

She hated him, really. That's all there was to it.

It was the way he looked at her with that stupid, cocky smirk on his lips, the way he spoke in that deep tone of voice that made goosebumps emerge up and down her spine.

He knew exactly how to push her buttons, exactly how to make her blood boil and her cheeks flush with anger.

And he knew exactly how to make her toes curl in ecstasy.

Basstard.

She had thought they were beyond this, beyond the infuriating battle of wits that somehow always led to sex.

She had spent the past year and a half at Yale, and he at Duke, and the five hundred miles between them allowed her to forget the horrible, unyielding hold that he seemed to have over her entire being. But there it was, months later and still as strong as ever after only minutes in his presence.

Yes, she definitely hated him.

She groaned inwardly at the thought, bringing the glass flute to her lips and downing the last of her Bellini.

"I'm going home," she announced abruptly, uncrossing her legs and standing to her feet. She didn't wait for the others to respond before walking away from them, placing one Manolo in front of the other as she headed toward the bar's exit. If she called now, she thought, she could probably convince Serena to meet her at Bungalow for one last cocktail.

That, and to plot the slow, excruciating assassination of Charles Bartholomew Bass.

The winter air was frigid when Blair finally pushed through the crowd, busting through the front door and stumbling into the cold December air.

The wind immediately whipped against her skin, penetrating her layers of clothing before she even had a chance to cringe at the feel of it's biting force.

She headed toward Jane Street on autopilot, her eyes scanning for the heavenly sight of a vacant cab, yet only spotting taxis with passengers loaded into the backseats. She rolled her eyes, suddenly hit with the realization of how difficult it could be to get a cab in the Village during the winter .

"Fucking," she muttered, pulling her cell phone from her clutch and searching for Serena's name.

She was just turning the street corner, scrolling through her Blackberry's address book when her black velvet peep-toe betrayed her, sliding traitorously across a patch of ice and knocking Blair momentarily (and ungracefully) off balance.

..

 **Central Park, 1995**

The earliest memory Blair had of ice skating by herself occurred when she was five years old. Her father had taken her to the rink in Central Park the day it had opened, his giggling daughter at his side and her brand new pink ice skates tucked beneath his arm. Blair had perched herself on a bench as he'd laced them at her feet, admiring the way they perfectly matched the polka dots on her her mittens before voicing this very thought to her father.

When she'd held up her gloved hands to show him, he'd nodded, smiling as he stood up and tousled her hair.

"You're mother wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

She hadn't felt even a twinge of nervousness when she'd first glided across the ice, placing one wobbly foot in front of the other as her father had gripped her hand strongly, keeping her upright. It was the greatest experience she'd ever had, in fact, exhilarating and whimsical and liberating all at the same time.

It was a half hour later when Harold Waldorf had finally released his daughter's hand, nodding encouragingly and giving her shoulders a squeeze.

"Just give it a shot, honey," he'd said. "You can do it all by yourself. I know you can."

And Blair had believed him because her daddy lied.

She'd returned his smile before turning away, not even hesitating before skating ahead of him courageously.

"Watch me, Daddy!" she'd yelled, grinning as she'd staggered along.

She hadn't turned around again until she was halfway across the rink, and it was then that she realized she could no longer see her father, his red knee-length coat no where in sight.

She had immediately tensed, her knees locking and her eyes welling with tears as a sense of panic invaded her body.

"Daddy!" she had called, her voice unsteady as her head whipped around.

He was gone, though, she'd realized as her eyes frantically scanned the crowded rink, her mouth going dry and her hands becoming clamming beneath her cashmere mittens.

"Daddy!" It had only taken seconds for him to appear by her side, his hands immediately gripping her protectively and pulling her into his arms. Tears had flooded her cheeks as she'd buried her face into his Burberry scarf, the familiar scent of his cologne invading her senses as he'd stroked her back soothingly.

"You're fine, Blair-bear," he'd told her, smiling and kissing the top of her head as he skated toward the wall of the rink. "I'm sorry you couldn't see me, sweetheart, but you're fine. I promise nothing's ever going to happen to you."

..

 **Present day, West Village.**

Blair hadn't thought of that day in years, so it was strange that such a random recollection flooded her mind at that particular moment. It was certainly a bittersweet memory, one that probably would've made her miss her father had she been able to feel anything other than an overwhelming sense of terror.

I promise nothing's ever going to happen to you.

She couldn't help but think how ironic it was that those words were all that echoed through her head when, just as she regained her balance on the slippery sidewalk, a hand clamp over her mouth, roughly pulling her down an abandoned side-street as her cell phone clattered against the concrete.

..

Short, I know. I do what I can.


End file.
